


Paint It Black

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Baseball RPF, Supernatural
Genre: Crack Crossover, Gen, Gore, Implied Character Death, Minor Character Death, No Spoilers, Not Beta Read, Oakland Athletics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s always the ones you least suspect.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint It Black

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, I don’t know. Let’s say this happened in that alternate universe where Street is still with Oakland AKA I started this years ago and abandoned it. And supernatural beings exist in this world, and stuff. 
> 
> I started this prior to _Supernatural_ S4, obviously, so it's non-canonical with regards to angels. It's also technically unfinished, though I think it could be considered complete. 
> 
> Title from the Rolling Stones song of the same name.

It’s always the ones you least suspect.

Street, the Bible thumper is standing over the corpse of the team’s trainer, blood dripping from his curled fingers. It plinks against the buttons of the trainer’s shirt, _plink-plink-plink_. The clubhouse’s inhabitants stare on in a mixture of disbelief and horror, paralyzed, unable to look away no matter how much they want to.

Dean holds up a tiny, cracked-leather prayer book and a cross. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii—_ ”

Street screams, clutching bloody hands at his ears.

“ _—omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi—_ ” Dean continues, Sam at his side, shotgun at the ready just in case.

Street focuses beetle-black eyes on Dean and his mouth twists into a feral smile, a flash of sharp, white teeth. 

This isn’t a good sign.

Dean steels himself and raises his voice. Like that’ll help. “ _Eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia—_ ”

Street lunges for Dean, hands extended, blood-stained fingers curled into claws. Dean drops the prayer book and the cross, and Sam stumbles back, into a rubber trashcan. The shotgun misfires, shattering the light fixture overhead, plunging the room into darkness. The panicked screams of the clubhouse’s inhabitants fill the smoky air.

Dean lands hard on his stomach and scrabbles along the floor for the shotgun, but a hand, sticky with something—probably blood—closes around his wrist and squeezes.  


 Dean screams and the bones in his wrist crunch.

“I’m stronger than you think.” The voice isn’t a voice—it sounds like the shrieks of a thousand tortured souls braided into one—and it trips something deep in Dean’s core. He panics, trying to jerk away, but the boy—the _thing_ inside the poor Christian boy—won’t let him go. “I’ve got plans for you, Dean.”

He looks up and he can make the outline of the demon in the boy’s body right before everything stops.

-

Dean opens his eyes slowly. There’s a low hum in his ears and he can’t tell if it’s from the rush of blood to his head or something else. He tries to open his mouth to scream for Sam, but his mouth isn’t working. When he brings his hands to his face he realizes why; the demon has sewn his mouth shut with the trainer’s surgical thread.

As Dean’s eyes begin to adjust to the dim light, he realizes he’s in a tiny room, the manager’s office. He sees glossy posters on the walls of happy, smiling baseball players in pressed white uniforms spilling onto the field. The glint of two replica World Series trophies on a shelf next to a locker.

Dean pushes himself up to his feet and and ventures to the door. He presses his ear against it; he can’t hear anything on the other end and he doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

He closes his hand around the cool brass doorknob and pushes the door open slowly.

The players are propped up in their lockers, heads all hanging at unnatural angles. One of the players’ eyes are still open; they’ve already filmed over and his elbows are bent stiffly. His face is locked in an expression of terror and Dean can see deep bruises at his neck and throat.

Dean swallows down a sudden surge of bile and turns. Turns smack into Street’s chest.

“I did this for you, Dean,” comes the kid’s—no—the demon wearing the kid’s lilting voice. It sounds almost like home, with its light Southern twang. Dean’s stomach roils and he shakes his head, tries to deny the reality of it.

 _Sam_ , he tries to say, _where’s Sam?_ but the words are muffled by his stitched lips. The tips of his fingers tingle.

“He’s waiting for you.” Street’s smile widens.

Dean tries not to pay much mind to the blood smeared across his lips.

-

Sam is pinned to the wall of the training room like a butterfly, nailed through his hands and feet. He’s pale, skin clammy, and his breath is shallow; Dean can tell he’s lost a lot of blood. His hair is matted to his face— with sweat or blood, Dean doesn’t know.

Dean turns on Street, prepared to rip him apart with his bare hands before something instinctual in the back of his brain tells him to stop, stand down.

“You know as well as I do that he must be destroyed,” Street hisses, wiping his bloody hands down the front of his formerly white home jersey. “The Lord wills it so.”

Dean jerks back, going cold all over. He stares at Street, eyes wide and disbelieving. _The Lord?_ This _is the work of the Lord?_

Street chuckles and straightens his posture. Dean can hear the soft fluttering of wings. “Yes.”

Dean reaches and touches his fingertips to his shoulder, waggling his fingertips to imitate the movement of wings. He looks at Street questioningly.

“Once, a long time ago.” Street sheathes his wings. “I’m what you humans might call a renegade these days.”

 _But his eyes! They were black! I saw them with my own eyes!_ Dean looks back up at Sam, panicked brain rapidly running through all the possible scenarios, and their eyes lock.

“You humans have such weak minds,” Street says. His blue eyes shutter inky and black just for a second. “They’re so easy to manipulate.”

Dean reaches out and touches Sam’s ankle. A low, pained moan escapes from Sam’s lips and Dean turns to lance Street with a hateful glare.

“His blood is bad. There is no other way.” Street raises his hand and closes his fist with a sickening wet crunch. Dean turns back to Sam, gone numb with terror. Blood gurgles out of Sam’s mouth and dribbles down his quivering chin.

Dean tugs frantically at Sam’s pinned hands, but the nails refuse to give. He turns back to Street and gestures wildly to him, Sam, himself. _I’ll do anything to save him_ , Dean thinks, _anything. Please, let him go_.

Sam parts cracked lips and more blood dribbles out. The light behind his eyes starts to flicker.

“I’m sorry,” Street says. His voice slips and slides over Dean’s fevered skin like silk.

Dean closes his eyes.


End file.
